<!DOCTYPE html>
<html>
<head>
<meta charset="UTF-8">
<title>Sugar and Spice by arthritis1</title>
<style type="text/css">

body { background-color: #ffffff; }
.CI {
text-align:center;
margin-top:0px;
margin-bottom:0px;
padding:0px;
}
.center   {text-align: center;}
.cover    {text-align: center;}
.full     {width: 100%; }
.quarter  {width: 25%; }
.smcap    {font-variant: small-caps;}
.u        {text-decoration: underline;}
.bold     {font-weight: bold;}
</style>
</head>
<body>
<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/25724401">Sugar and Spice</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/arthritis1/pseuds/arthritis1'>arthritis1</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Carry On Series - Rainbow Rowell</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe - Non-Magical, Cooking, M/M, POV Third Person</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-08-05</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-08-05</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-05 11:28:01</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>General Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>3,243</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/25724401</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/arthritis1/pseuds/arthritis1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Baz could hardly believe his luck. <br/>	It was one thing to achieve his lifelong dream of being on a cooking show. But it was another thing to be completely bewitched by a head of caramel curls and a pair of clear blue eyes. <br/>	Now, to be fair, the feeling in his gut wasn’t entirely warm and fuzzy. There were heaping amounts of fear, regret, and embarrassment stirring up with equal ferocity. This little crush of his could possibly interfere with his performance in this competition, and that was certainly a no-go. <br/>But, for now, with a week still proceeding the first round, he would allow himself a little glance at the handsome Simon Snow. What could possibly go wrong?</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Tyrannus Basilton "Baz" Pitch/Simon Snow</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>8</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Sugar and Spice</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>This is my first fic... ever? If it does well, I might continue it. Sorry if you're here before it's completed. I know the anticipation must be agonizing.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <b>Simon </b>
</p><p>
  <span>This was it. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Simon was one envelope away from his dream. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Over a month ago, he’d taken the risk of submitting his application to </span>
  <em>
    <span>Bakers of Britain</span>
  </em>
  <span>. It’d always seemed like such a distant goal, since he hadn’t necessarily been raised on sophisticated cuisine, but after he’d finally been able to manage his own flat on his own, he decided it was worth a shot. He’d tried not to get his hopes up. But he couldn’t help himself. He tore open the flap of the envelope, ripping reckless lines in the paper as he scrambled for the card inside. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>Simon Snow,</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Congratula-”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Simon was on the floor before he even finished reading the third word. He had a terrible habit of scrawling across the hideous linoleum whenever something unbelievable happened to him. He might’ve been crying. He wasn’t all too sure. All he knew was that he was too happy for words. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He wasn’t too good with words anyhow. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>After he’d finished with his crying, he fumbled in the pocket of his jeans for his phone. He held it up to his face, much too shaky to use the dial. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Call Penelope.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The phone barely had time to ring before someone picked up on the other end of the line. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Simon?” Penny sounded concerned. She had every right to be- every time Simon called, he was either setting himself or the kitchen on fire. It was safe to say they hardly went a day without talking. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Penny, you aren’t going to believe this,” He was giggling like a schoolgirl. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Penny sighed. It was a muffled sound through the low quality of Simon’s phone speakers, but he knew that sound anywhere. “If you’ve set your pants alight again, Simon, I wouldn’t say I’m surprised.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I don’t cook in my pants anymore, Penny,” Simon said, running his eyes over his glorious acceptance letter again. “And I haven’t set my clothing on fire.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Color me shocked,” Penny replied. She sounded very jaded. Simon intended to change that. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Penny,” Simon tucked in a deep breath, his phone shaking in his hand. “I made it.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Simon started giggling again. He couldn’t help it. Penny was gushing wildly on her end of the line, and Simon could practically hear her excited pacing. She paced when she was worried, and excited, and really just in any mood. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’ve got to be kidding me! They let you on?” Penny was yelling into the receiver. Simon pulled it away from his ear a bit. “Simon-The-Walking-Explosion-Snow?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah!” Simon grinned. The sunlight was streaming in through the tiny kitchen window above the sink, and it struck his face with the golden beams of early evening. “I can’t believe it either!” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Penny sighed, but it was a different kind of sigh. Simon wasn’t sure what it was until she spoke. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m so proud of you,” She said, “So, so proud of you.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <b>Baz</b>
</p><p>
  <span>Baz was lying in his room when he was brought the news.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mordelia had always had a terrible habit of bursting in the door without asking, so she was met with a very loud cry of “Sod off,” when Baz spotted her dark head in the doorway. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No,” She protested, holding up a letter. Baz set down his violin on his bed, rushing over to her. He ruffled her hair with his hand. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Stubborn little puff,” He grumbled, reaching for the letter. Mordelia jerked it away. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She always had this terribly adorable smirk on her face when she was being naughty. “No,” She repeated, like a very negative broken record. “Say please.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He bent over, leaning with his hands on his knees and looking in her eyes. “You’ve grown to be very much like me, and I don’t like you for it.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She stuck her tongue out, holding the letter behind her back.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh, you terror-” Baz reached his arms around her, grabbing at the air as she pulled the letter further and further away from him. Finally, he closed his hands around something papery and pulled, catching Mordelia just off-guard enough to yank it from her grip.  He held it above his head before she could grab it back. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She huffed and crossed her arms. “I get it from my brother, thank you.”  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Then she turned out the door as fast as she’d come. Baz pushed the door shut with his foot as he brought the letter down to his eyes. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He didn’t recognize the return address. His name was written in very neat cursive. “</span>
  <em>
    <span>Tyrannus Basilton Grimm-Pitch.” </span>
  </em>
  <span>He’d never liked his full name. Too posh. Too regal. Although, he figured, it was fitting for someone like him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He sat on the edge of his bed, crossing his legs at the ankles as he slid his finger under the flap of the envelope. He tore it open with a slowness that was excruciating to even himself, but he didn’t mind. He had nothing else to do that day, he may as well have spent an hour ripping the seal. He didn’t, however. He’d never been the most patient. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He pulled out a single slip of paper from the envelope. Just a front and the back. On the front, it read “</span>
  <em>
    <span>Bakers of Britain”- </span>
  </em>
  <span>had it been four weeks already? Four long weeks of applying for colleges, practicing Beyonce on the violin, baking cakes and tossing them in the bin… </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Now was the moment of truth, he supposed. It's now or never. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He turned over the card. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>Basilton Pitch,</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Congratulations!” </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <b>Simon</b>
</p><p>
  <span>Simon was beginning to regret wearing joggers. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Firstly, it was hot. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He thought he’d understood the fact that English summers were hot by now, but he obviously hadn’t. Here he was, black joggers with white stripes down the sides, hold-all stuffed under his arm, looking up at the tall brick mansion he was to live in for the next three weeks of his life. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Secondly, everyone here was better dressed. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Particularly, a beautiful milky-blonde girl who seemed more interested in her blouse than the Victorian mansion in front of us. And a dark-haired man in a silk shirt that Simon couldn’t quite take his eyes off of. He wasn’t sure why. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The man was staring back at him. Simon looked at his feet, which were inappropriately clothed in trainers. Even after he’d stopped being pathetically poor, he still dressed it, didn’t he?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Excuse me?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Simon looked up. There was a beautiful face looking at him from about three inches above, with a vampish widow’s peak and striking grey eyes. It was the expensive looking man. His face was much more lovely than his silk shirt. </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Well,</span>
  </em>
  <span> Simon thought, </span>
  <em>
    <span>that’s right gay, isn’t it? </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>“I didn’t mean anything by it,” Simon stuttered, feeling rather proud of his mostly coherent sentence. Then he realized that it made no sense in context. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“By what? The staring? I didn’t mind,” The man said, looking off to the side. The English sun shone in his eyes. “Everyone stares, at first.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It was an accident,” Simon sputtered. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The man looked down his nose at Simon, who suddenly felt very small. “Sure it was. I’m certain you were shocked by the prospect of denim pants- Crowley knows you don’t own any.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Simon just looked away. “Well- uh- actually-”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Use your words next time, Snow,” The man sneered. “You’d be shocked at the results.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Simon met the man’s eyes, setting his jaw. He thought that ought to make him back down, but his gaze was stoic. Stick up his arse, no doubt. He looked like he was born rich. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“How’d you know my name?” Simon asked.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“With you parading it around like that, it’d be tricky to miss,” The man gestured to Simon’s bag, which did, in fact, have his name stitched onto it in big letters. It had been a Christmas gift from Penny. “Mine’s Baz, if it concerns you.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I think it should,” Simon said, wiping sweat from his forehead. His hand came away wet. The man- Baz- looked revolted. “Since I should be able to mock you by name when I win.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh, please,” Baz scoffed, “Baking isn’t a competition. It’s all in good fun. I just happen to be the best here at enjoying myself.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Then, he was off. Simon watched him march towards the house with the rest of the pack, standing helplessly behind. He felt a tap on his shoulder. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She was gorgeous. Blonde, thin, dainty, like something out of a romantic painting. He remembered seeing those golden-brown eyes for a brief moment a few minutes prior. Looking down into them, he felt his heart hesitate for a beat. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“We’re going, you know,” She said, in a voice that was just as stunning as he might’ve expected. She has to be some sort of celebrity guest, Simon thought. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He had to clear his throat to bring himself back into the moment. “Yes, I know,” He said, in an accent that sounded nothing but atrocious next to hers. Why was everyone here so posh?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The girl nodded before turning to follow the others. Her honey-blonde hair glimmered beautifully in the sunlight, falling in perfect waves over the fabric of her thin white blouse. Simon reached to pinch his upper arm. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>No, not dreaming. He could hardly believe his luck. </span>
</p><p>
  <b>Baz</b>
</p><p>
  <span>Baz could hardly believe his luck. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It was one thing to achieve his lifelong culinary dream. But it was another thing to be completely bewitched by a head of caramel curls and a pair of clear blue eyes. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Now, to be fair, the feeling in his gut wasn’t entirely warm and fuzzy. There were heaping amounts of fear, regret, and embarrassment stirring up with equal ferocity. This little crush of his could possibly interfere with his performance in this competition, and that was certainly a no-go. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>But, for now, with a week still proceeding the first round, he would allow himself a little glance at the handsome Simon Snow. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It was clear that he didn’t have half the status that most of his competitors did. His clothes were, whether by choice or necessity, rather plain and underwhelming, and his accent clearly didn’t come from the highest hill in London. The look on his face as they were led on a tour of the house was positively flabbergasted, to put it lightly. It’s as if he’d never seen a four-poster before. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>They reached the top floor, and the tour guide stopped to face the group. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She explained a whole long list of the housing requirements and conditions, while a man with a camera circled around the room and shoved the lens in unsuspecting contestants’ faces. Unsurprisingly, Baz noticed the attention being focused rather shamelessly towards himself. Even the other competitors seemed to take note, glancing over as Baz received yet another close up. It was clear that he was one half of the customary fan-favorite couple. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The other half? Agatha Wellbelove. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>They went to culinary school together, and had built up some sort of friendly relationship. It was clear, however, that Agatha was much more interested in him than he was in her. The reasons for this should have been obvious, but his classmates still pestered him with jokes. It seemed that the world would be close to follow these precedents. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Fair enough. He’d play along. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Between sneaky looks at Snow, he’d slip in the occasional glance at Wellbelove. The cameras ate it up. Baz knew that, just as quickly as these clips would be aired, the fan theories would follow. Interpretations of every little flutter of eyelashes, every tiny shift of posture, would be plastered all over news articles and fan pages. And he intended to give them plenty of material to work with. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Wellbelove was led away with the other girls to their housing area. Just before the cameras slid their fixation off of him, Baz gave her a playful wink. Her noticeable blush was either a result of incredible acting or genuine flattery, and Baz didn’t really care to decide which. It was all for show, anyways. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Once the girls were gone, Baz turned his attention back to the bane of his competitive spirit. Snow was looking particularly clueless now. His fingers fidgeted with the hem of his t-shirt, and his eyes darted around the room like he was afraid a dust bunny might attempt to strangle him. It was, at the very least, laughable. The cameras even caught a few seconds of the show that trailed down Snow’s neck in an anxious swallow. He had freckles there, too. Like stars. Baz’s mind nearly escaped him with the curiosity of how far down those moles went. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The male housing manager explained to the group of men that each room would hold two contestants. There were obvious rules against cross-teaming and sabotage, but Baz couldn’t possibly understand why anyone would do either of those things. They had all coasted here on the basis of culinary competence, hadn’t they? </span>
</p><p>
  <span>As the guide explained the rooming situation, Baz couldn’t help but let his mind wander. What was the likelihood he would end up in the same room as Snow? That would be disastrous. Astronomically unforeseen. He would have to pull a lot of strings to keep up the flirtations persona with Wellbelove. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>But the chances that Snow would be his roommate were relatively small. There were four other men, all of which looked significantly less appealing to Baz’s strange tastes. This was good. Very good. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Simon Snow, and…” The man paused, furrowing his brow at the next name on the page. Baz knew that expression well. That’s the face every teacher would don when they came across his name during attendance. Baz held his breath, hoping some other man had a name as confusing as his. “Tyrannus Basilton Grimm-Pitch.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Everyone turned to him at that. Even the ones he hadn’t introduced himself to were overwhelmingly certain that he was the owner of such an excessive name. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Snow’s reaction was priceless. Blue eyes wide, mouth agape like a fish. Baz managed to twist his face into a sneer, looking down his nose at the tawny-haired man. He watched the anger flash behind his eyes as the cameras panned between the two. The season rivalry was beginning to take form. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>And Baz had thought pretending to like Agatha would be hard. Compared to faking a hatred for Snow, the budding ‘romance’ between him and Wellbelove would be a walk in the park. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The tour guide finished listing off the combinations for the rooms, but the cameras lingered on Baz and Snow whenever they shared a new exchange of expressions. Baz wondered if they caught the audio of their conversation out on the great lawn. If they had, this was going to make a very interesting segment. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Finally, the men were dismissed to unpack and get settled for the night. The kitchens would be open for practise in the morning, leaving them with the rest of the evening to explore the grounds and introduce themselves. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Baz wasted no time in making a beeline for his assigned room. Snow trailed close behind, tripping over his own feet. The cameras were trained on the two of them. Noting this, Baz turned around to face his roommate just before he reached the door. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Determined to make a fool of yourself, Snow?” Baz sneered. He glued his eyes to Snow’s, putting all of his concentration behind a mocking glare. It must’ve been successful, because Snow’s lip quivered. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“N-no,” Snow stammered, clutching his bag to his chest. His eyes shied away nervously. A camera moved in to catch a close-up of his expression, and Baz watched as he squirmed under the pressure. “I- I just- I’m- you know, there’s-”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Baz rolled his shoulders back. Snow was shorter than him by a noticeable margin, and the cameraman had to adjust his grip to pan over to Baz’s face. “Use your words.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Snow set his jaw. The look on his face was practically predatory. He walked towards Baz, and for a moment, it seemed like he might hit him. Or, better yet… </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Instead, Snow pushed right past Baz, slamming their shoulders together on the way. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Baz gave the camera a melodramatic incredulous expression. The lens lingered for a few long moments before turning away to go focus on something else down the hall- some sort of heated argument between two girls. Baz thought about hanging out to see where it would go, but he decided that the episode would be aired in a few days anyway. Better to save himself the drama. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He turned to face the bedroom door behind him. Snow must’ve slammed it shut after charging past, but Baz had been too focused on looking pretty for the camera to notice. Luckily, the wanker had enough decency to leave the knob unlocked. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The room inside was rather plain, but well decorated. There was a bed on either side of a large window, both four-poster with cream-colored bedding. Snow had already thrown his bag onto the one one on the right. He didn’t even give Baz the decency of a glance as he marched over to the opposite bed and set his suitcase on the mattress. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Baz started unpacking his things. He watched as the wind blew through the leaves outside, carrying the sweet aroma of summer in through the open window. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Baz slammed it shut. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That was a little unnecessary,” Snow exclaimed. Baz could hear the anger in his voice, but he refused to turn around to face him. Instead, he glared intently at the window screen. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I was getting cold, Snow,” Baz monotoned. He set the remainder of his clothes into his drawer and closed it, finally turning to face Snow. “The draft. Although I’m sure you don’t chill easily, with all that hotheadedness.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Snow’s expression was nearly enough to crack Baz’s composure. Shoulders squared, jaw clenched, fists ready at his sides. It was the same stubborn determination as before, the one that looked almost like...  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You can call me Simon, you know,” Snow was flushed red from neck to hairline. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Baz ran his hand over the corner of his bedclothes, smoothing out a wrinkle in the sheets. He felt Simon’s gaze on his back. A shiver ran down his spine, and it took him a moment to regain control over his voice. “Maybe I don’t want to.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He sounded cold. Distant. Heartless. It was all too perfect a cover for his fluttering heart. For a fleeting moment, he had himself convinced that he could build up a hatred for this curly-haired stranger. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Until he smiled. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It was brief, and probably laced with sarcasm and underlying rage. But </span>
  <em>
    <span>god, </span>
  </em>
  <span>was it brilliant. Baz had to bite back a gasp. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Say, what was it? </span>
  <em>
    <span>Tyrannus?</span>
  </em>
  <span>” Snow gave Baz a showy once-over. “Figures. Tyrant.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Baz rolled his eyes, picking up one of his pillows and fluffing it. “Baz. You know, Snow, you haven’t got much room to jab at names.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Simon is a perfectly normal name!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Baz arched an eyebrow. “Simon Snow.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes!” Simon huffed, crossing his arms. His frustration was decidedly adorable. “Better than </span>
  <em>
    <span>Tyrannus Bazinga Brothers-Grimm</span>
  </em>
  <span> or whatever.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I…” Baz sighed. The subsequent facepalm was nearly instinctual. “I’m afraid I don’t know where to begin with correcting you, Snow.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’ll correct that crook in your nose, that’s what I’ll do,” Simon grumbled. He turned back to unpacking his things, leaving Baz to wonder if the crook in his nose was really </span>
  <em>
    <span>that </span>
  </em>
  <span>noticeable.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It was going to be a rough month. </span>
</p>
  </div></div>
</body>
</html>